Page 17 of The Wrong Monster

Everything I know about my biological father fits into less than a minute of conversation. His first name was Semiyon. He was charming, ordered mint chocolate chip, took her to a diner the next morning, and then… disappeared.

The end.

I’d stopped asking questions somewhere around high school when I realized Mom wasn’t keeping secrets to be cruel. She genuinely didn’t have many answers to give.

A first name and an ice cream order. I’ve never seen a photograph, never met him, never gone looking. Ed is my father; I don’t need a stranger auditioning for the part.

And then Ed showed up when I was only eight months old.

He’d married a woman with a baby and a lot of shame. Some men are fathers because of biology. Others earn it. Ed definitely did.

“I hear hurricane season doesn’t start until late summer,” I offer, attempting the conversational equivalent of CPR. “You guys could always summer up here, then head back down for winter.”

Mom hums her agreement.

Then, carefully, she asks, “Have you talked to Emma recently?”

Every muscle in my shoulders tightens. I hate how jealous I get at the sudden interest in her tone. Emma always talked about being the overlooked daughter, and I always reassured her that she wasn’t. Now that her life has taken center-stage, I couldn’t be more tight-lipped.

“No, I haven’t,” I barely manage to get out. They know Emma and I aren’t speaking right now.

“Honey...”

“I’ve been busy.”

It’s technically true. It just isn’t the reason.

Emma is two years younger than me.

Emma is also married to a Bratva boss.

Every time I think about it, something inside me rebels. I defend people accused of crimes for a living. I believe every person deserves a fair trial, competent counsel, and the presumption of innocence.

That isn’t the same thing as willingly inviting organized crime to Thanksgiving dinner.

I stare at the now thick and cold hot chocolate in my hands, then stand and pace to the window.

“I don’t know what you want me to say to her.”

No one answers. Because for once... None of us knows the right argument. I haven’t told my parents about just who Emma is married to. They still think he’s just the CEO of a fashion design company out of California. And she has a child now; a son, which Mom and Dad are obviously thrilled with.

For once, she’s found a way to outshine me. The last thing I’ve thought of over the past decade is settling down.

Still. As much as I have a problem with Emma’s Bratva husband, it’s not my secret to tell.

“I just think,” Mom says carefully, “you should make more of an effort.”

“I do make an effort.”

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, I do. I rub my temple.

“No, Mom. I don’t.”

“She’s your sister.”

“We had a falling out, that’s all. It’ll blow over…eventually.”